


Happy Anniversary

by Keagan_Ashleigh



Series: Symphony For Lost Souls [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock's Violin, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sherlock and john meeting anniversary, violin metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:47:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keagan_Ashleigh/pseuds/Keagan_Ashleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>29th of January 2015, it's been exactly five years since they met. On this special day, the violin Sherlock thought he lost is returned to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> You may want to listen three things with this fic: the opening theme + Pink from BBC Sherlock (you'll understand why quite easily), and Dead Man's Eyes by Apocalyptica because this is a nice song and it inspires me for post TAB writing in general.
> 
> This fic is the following of my previous fic "The Violin".

The darkness of the night is slowly enveloping the streets, the lamps are lit and the small drops of drizzle shine like dust in the sunlight. The passers by hurrying to go home as the darkness falls upon them, a kind promise of rest after a long day, wrapping their tighter around themselves. 

With a sigh, Sherlock rest his forehead on the living-room's window glass, his breath on the cold glass covers the view of the street above, making it appear like a fading dream. He closes his eyes and think about the whole chain of events that brought him here, right in this place, the 29th of January 2015.   
A few weeks ago he came to the resolution that he had to let his feelings be expressed. About four weeks ago, already, after he solved the case of his own torments. But this day marks a more significant event in his life: exactly five years ago, he met John.   
This marked the most important change in his life, without this day, everything that happened next until his sheer realization that he John Watson is everything he needs, none of this would have happened and he thinks that he would probably be dead by now – really dead. Or something worse. He think that he would have been irremediably lost.

It all went so fast, he thinks, and at the same time, these five years feels like a lifetime. He let escape another sigh as the thought, as he feels a gentle touch on his shoulder.  
“John.”  
“Are you alright?”  
“Hm. Not sure. The time passes too slowly and too fast.”  
“Yes, you're bored, that is all.”  
“No.” he says with a small laugh, before stepping away from the window to pick his violin, only to remember he mislaid it. “I am not. I didn't heard you come in.”  
“Sorry. I didn't wanted to sneak up, I didn't wanted to bother you, I'm sorry.”  
“Oh, don't be, that's ok, you can never bother me. I enjoy every visit you pay to me. The house feels empty since you're gone.”

John startled at this unexpected declaration, so strange for it to come out of Sherlock's mouth. 

“I... hm. Ok. Well, I... I wish I could come more often.” You have no idea how much I want to come back.  
“I know. I wish it too.” 

John struggled a moment to put a finger on what was embarrassing him that much, a mixture of guilt and longing. Sherlock was looking at his easel, obviously worried by the absence of the instrument, beating a measure slowly with his fingers on the top of it.   
Frustrated by the missing object, he groans while turning his back to the window and walked to health, and took the poker to reanimate the flames under the embers.   
While he was doing this John kept looking at him, and he know Sherlock so well he got that the missing violin was disturbing him.

“You miss it, don't you?” he asks, knowing the answer already. “Your violin?”  
“That's not what I miss the most but yes, I do.”  
“I somehow imagined you didn't cared about it. You left without it.”  
“Nonsense.”  
“Why did you left it then?”  
“I... I didn't felt like... playing. Anymore. I thought someone would take care of it, or that I could come pick it up later, I don't know. It's complicated, but I do care a lot about my violin. It was a mistake, I regret it now. There's so much you can express with music that you can't with words.”  
“Quite right.” John says with a smile. “Sherlock, tell me, no one went to my room when I was away?”  
“How would I know? No, I don't think so. You better ask Mrs Hudson. Why?”  
“Wait here.” he says while rushing to the stairs heading to the second floor.   
“Why? John?! John!” Sherlock shouts, worried that he made a blunder, confused and slightly afraid. 

That's it, I ruined it all, and he's mad at me, though I don't know why... Stupid me. Dear God, how normal people do that? How?!   
He sulks, pacing back and forth in front of the fire, walking from his chair to John's, from John's chair to his, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. He regained his composure, more or less, at least tried to, when he heard John's steps from the stairs.   
He couldn't bear to look at John leave, so he searched with his eyes something to look at. He waits for the sound of John's step fading away downstairs, and the door to be closed, but instead he hears the soft sound of John's steps getting closer, on the rug. 

Then, as Sherlock doesn't turn to face him, John stops just behind Sherlock and stretches his hand by Sherlock's right side so Sherlock has no choice but see his violin appear in his field of vision.   
Sherlock instantly turns on his feet and grab the instrument, laughing, crying “thank you” while wrapping his arms around John, who startles at the impulsive move.

“How?” Sherlock exclaims when he releases John from his embrace, and John has to cough to unlock the breath he was holding.   
“I, hum, I picked it up after the wedding.”  
“I thought it was lost... It was here all this time? Why did you never told me?”  
“I guess I forgot.” John lies while Sherlock put the violin under his chin to play a couple notes.   
“You have many wonderful qualities John, as a partner and as a friend, but the capacity of lying efficiently isn't one of them.”  
“Oh!” John rages, lifting an angry finger but quickly giving up on this to agree. “Possibly.”  
“Most certainly.” Sherlock jokes. “So tell me, why didn't you told me it was here?”  
“Like I said, I thought you left it on purpose.”  
“Why would I do that?”  
“I have no idea. Is this really important to know, it's in your hands now, isn't it enough?”  
“Yes. No. I didn't knew you cared about my violin, though. You could have left it where it was and forget it.”  
“This is the most precious thing you own, of course I care about it.”  
“This is not the most precious thing I own.”  
“Oh. No?”  
“The most precious thing I own is your affection.” Sherlock admits in a low voice, blushing a bit, looking at John from behind his eyelashes. “I'm sorry I neglected it. I'm sorry I may have given you the feeling it didn't count, it does, and I am happy to have you by my sides, even after all the terrible things I did, even if I have been a terrible friend. I value my violin a lot, that's true, but I value you even more. Thank you John.”

John is taken aback by Sherlock's words, such a confession was the last thing he would have expected to hear, and it fell into his heart like a kiss, a warmth spreading across his body, from his stomach.   
If he had known that Sherlock gave up on his violin this night and at the same time on his feelings because he valued John more than his own feelings, there is no doubt he would have taken two steps ahead to grab Sherlock's hips and would have planted a kiss of these beautiful lips.  
But he doesn't know that. What he hears is “I value you as a friend” when Sherlock means so much more.   
He sniffs as an attempt to hold back the tears he doesn't want to show, an attempt to contain the bursting need of holding Sherlock close against him, the need to touch him him, to kiss each part of him. He holds back his impulses and manage to say:

“There is no need to thank me, Sherlock. You are the best friend I ever had and I too, value you a lot.” After a brief silence, he asks: “Would you mind playing? For me?”  
“Not at all. What do you want me to play?”  
“Anything you like.”  
“Alright.”

Sherlock looked a moment in his memory to find the right tune to play, then as he found it, a satisfied exclamation coming out of his mouth, he holds his violin in position, closes his eyes, and make the bow slide on the strings. 

A minor, EGF# D, DFE, CEDA, ABCDBCA..., a faster theme following – going crescendo -, then a slower one, very different, both heading to the first theme that know appears to be a mixture of the two others, slower than the second, faster than the third, perfect rhythm combination of two very different themes. 

“I don't know this song.” John says a minute after Sherlock finished. “Did you wrote it?”  
“Yes.” I wrote it for us. This is our song, our story.  
“This is beautiful.”  
“I think it is, yes. Will you stay?”  
“Yes. I mean, you mean... for diner? Yes. Yes I'll stay.”  
“Excellent! Sit,” Sherlock enjoin while rushing to the kitchen, taking the mess on the table to replace it in the same messy way on another spot. “I'm pretty sure we had something...”  
“Hey, what about just ordering pizza?”  
“Yes. Ok. Good idea.”

John stands up to pick the phone, and as he's composing the number, he look at Sherlock fondly, thinking how much he missed this. How much seeing Sherlock rushing everywhere to clean things reminds him a certain day where he saw him did this for the first time, the 29th of January 2010, and he thinks about how much things seemed peaceful then. There was never anything that seemed so right than him, calling to order a pizza, Sherlock playing violin, and then both watching tv until they yawn from tiredness.   
He remembers this day, how charming Sherlock was, how much everything looked like a promise of something beautiful. The best day of my life, he thinks.   
And if for five years he didn't thought Sherlock even cared, he is willing to rethink this, now. Maybe he does care, after all.

“Can you realize?” He asks, sitting on the sofa next to Sherlock, taking a sip of his glass of wine.  
“What?”  
“This day, five years exactly since we met, you and I.” Don't stare at his lips, for Christ sak... oh dear...  
“I know. I am glad you noticed. This is an important day for me.”  
“It is for me too.”   
After a while, John pours their glasses, and rises his own, Sherlock imitating him.  
“Happy anniversary, Sherlock.”  
“Happy anniversary, John.”

They hold their gaze a while, the sound of the television distant like a murmur, when John's phone ringtone breaks the silence. He picks it up, disappointed, frustrated and angry.   
“Mary. She says she doesn't feel well. I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I gotta go, she's maybe...”  
“I understand.” Sherlock says, sighing as the reality of Mary's pregnancy irrupted into their comfortable moment together. He almost forgot her.   
John would have preferred to stay, but he's rushing anyway to grab his coat. He's about to open the door when he turns and say to Sherlock who followed him down the stairs:  
“I am sorry.”  
“That's okay. Call me if you need me.”  
“I will.”  
John turns again, open the door, then turns again to give Sherlock a look full of desperation and regrets.  
“I am sorry.” He says a last time.

Once John's gone, Sherlock sits on the stairs and sighs, his head between his knees.   
“Damn.”

Mrs Hudson waited a minute in front of her door before daring to step toward Sherlock. She hands him a cup of herbal, smiling gently.   
Sherlock rises his head to the cup, then to Mrs Hudson, saying thank you as he takes the cup. She doesn't make any comment, and he's thankful for it. With a gentle touch on his shoulder, she makes him feel a little less miserable.   
“Drink your tea and go to sleep, sweetie.”  
“I don't think I can sleep.”

And that was true. The next morning, he got a text from John, saying “Mary's in the hospital. Not good. Can't explain here, I'll be happy if you can come asap.”   
Death in his soul, Sherlock obliges.


End file.
